Seymore indulged himself with as many short visits to Edith as his circumstances would allow, always struggling as he was with almost insurmountable obstacles, and straining every nerve to attain that goal of his hopes, a position in society that would allow him to claim his bride. The joy that her presence imparted to his whole being, the change that came over him the moment his weary eye caught sight of the steeple that rose above the dear spot of all his dreams, the sunshine that she diffused in the dark places of his mind, prevented Edith from being sensible of the change, the painful change, that a constant struggle with the coarse realities of his position had made in his noble nature. She had often, indeed, said, with Jenny Deans, "It is no matter which has the siller, if the other wants it." But Seymore's nature was proud as well as tender. He possessed, as we have before seen, the temperament of the poet--that pure, rare, and passionate nature so little able to contend with the actual difficulties of life--to whom every-day regular labor is a burden hard to bear. We have seen that his deep religious impressions had made him consecrate all his fine powers to the service of God; and the tenderness of his conscience made him fear that the sacrifice was imperfect. The conflict was ever in his soul. He was unable to satisfy his own aspirations after a spirituality and purity, which is the slow growth of a life of exertion. Despondency so intimately allied to the poetic temperament produced a morbid sensibility, a sort of monomania in his mind, having the effect of those singular mirages seen from the sea-shore, where the most trivial and familiar objects are magnified to temples and altars, and hung, as it were, in the clouds. We touch with a reverend spirit and trembling hand the mysterious influences of hidden causes, uniting with unhappy external circumstances, to involve those who seem formed to bless and to be blessed in a self-tormenting melancholy. I know not that, under any circumstances, Seymore's would have been a happy spirit. Under the present, his love for Edith seemed the only light that could save him from total shipwreck. The two lovers wrote to each other as often as the state of communication between different parts of the country would allow, before post-roads had been established, and when letters were often entrusted to wandering Indians, and the postage paid with a little tobacco, or a handful of meal. We may judge of the nature of Seymore's letters by one of Edith's, which appears to be an answer to one of his: _October, 1692._